Week 1:
Student, “I highly
prefer playing in orchestra to band. If there’s any way I can possibly be in orchestra…”
Me, “How long have you been playing the flute?”
“One year, but I’m very advanced.”
Student, “I played the violin for nine years, but then I
quit…I mean…transferred my knowledge
to flute. I am prepared to audition for the orchestra, which I highly prefer, with orchestral excerpts.”
Student, “I can also play the piccolo if that makes me more
valuable as an orchestral player.”
Me, “Oh? What kind of piccolo do you have?”
Student, “Well, I don’t actually own one.”
Me, “Hi there. How are you doing? I’m sorry you weren’t
placed in orchestra this week. We have so many flutists here at camp this week
and the auditions were very competitive. I hope you enjoyed band this morning.”
Student, “I…I am trying to make the most of a highly unfortunate
circumstance.”
Student, “In spite of not being in orchestra, I am very glad
to play piccolo in band this week. However, I’m only playing it in these four
measures because I don’t want to damage my hearing.”
Student, “You are such a good flute teacher. I am absorbing
SO MUCH. Oh, is your flute made of rose
gold?”
Me, “Well, your lesson time is up, but before you leave I’d love to pray for
you and this upcoming week! Is there anything specifically you’d like me to
pray for?”
Student, “Could you please pray that I get into orchestra
next week?”
Week 2:
Student, “I spoke with the handbell director and I am
interested in playing handbells. But only if I am not selected for orchestra,
which I highly prefer.”
Me, “Oh that’s a great idea! Handbells are a lot of fun.”
Student, “Yes, but I still want to be in orchestra.”
Head camp counselor, “I think you need to come to the music
building. Said student has been crying for an hour after seeing seating results
for ensembles.”
Me, sighing heavily, “On my way.”
…
Overheard in coat closet:
Student, “My heart is broken.
I may never have the chance to play in an orchestra ever again. I just feel like I am so persecuted as a musician. Did
you know I was forced to sing alto in
choir for the past four years? I finally quit and played flute in band instead.
But the tenor saxophone player verbally
abused me and I am just so persecuted. My dreams have been dashed.”
To be continued…?
Contrary to absolutely everything you've just read, camp has actually been overwhelmingly
sane. Time stands still here, and it’s easier to see how you’ve changed in a
year when nothing else has changed around you. I have more energy and desire to
chat with new people, adults and campers, this summer. I feel, oddly, grownup.
I remember my dad telling me he didn’t really feel like an adult until he was
in his 30s. I think I’m beginning to understand. I feel more confident in who I
am, or perhaps I don’t fear as much what others may think I am. Or both. They
go hand in hand. Anyway, I’m getting a pretty clear bead on how I’ve grown in
the past 12 months. And how my family has grown.
Last summer Owen was just starting to drag himself around
our little apartment here on the third floor, James was darting shy eyes at an 8 year old named Lizzie, and
Roy was in and out constantly with concerts and gigs. Now Owen is climbing the
interminable staircases himself and can mount the breakfast bar stools without
help. James has taken ownership of himself at camp, choosing vegetables at each
meal, deciding that it’s probably OK to just sleep during nap time when he’s
tired, and even leaving George and Steven behind the entire time we’ve been
here. Where did my baby go?! And Roy is finally, finally, finally on faculty, which doesn’t really change our schedule a lot,
but definitely adds a level of mental stability to the entire visit. He has a
role and he belongs. (Which I’ve said all along, but now also feel. Also, the
paycheck…)
So we start week 2 and look forward to the pool, the Frisbee,
the music, our friends, and our precious family time. May our ankles stay strong,
our eyes stay open, the coffee stay near, and the AC-less apartment not rise
above 86F.
Happy birthday Melissa. J
Book 43/50: A
Lucky Life Interrupted by Tom Brokaw. A
memoir about his relatively recent diagnosis of cancer. After reading this book
I am convinced Mr. Brokaw is a highly intelligent man with a thorough grasp of
what it is to be an American. I wish he loved Jesus and had some eternal hope,
especially as he continues his fight against an incurable (but treatable)
cancer, but his writing is rich and smart and historical.
P.S. Everybody should go to Starbucks and buy an iced
coconut milk mocha macchiato today. It’s hot out and you’re tired and grumpy
and this will HEAL YOUR WOES. You’re welcome.
Thanks, J.:)
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